


Harmony Drabbles

by dragonfly117



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonfly117/pseuds/dragonfly117
Summary: A series of drabbles about Harry and Hermione's relationship.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 25
Kudos: 52
Collections: HMS Harmony Discord Drabbles





	1. A Happy Halloween

Harry sighed as he checked his watch. Dean Thomas' party had started a half hour ago, but thanks to apparition, he'd still only be fashionably late.

It's not that he didn't want to go. But Halloween parties had never been a thing for him growing up. The Dursleys hadn't even dressed up Dudley much, seeing as how Halloween costumes embraced everything they abhorred—a love of the magical, the spooky, the unreal.

And while Harry usually relished taking part in everything he couldn't when he was a kid—the ski trip to Austria with Hermione and her parents had been the best vacation of his life, and he finally understood Dean's fondness for football after his old schoolmate had taken them all to their first professional game last year—Halloween costumes never really appealed to him.

Perhaps because they always seemed to involve some form of tights.

He sighed and rummaged through his closet looking for something suitable to wear before landing on his old Gryffindor seeker robes.

A bit of a cop out, probably, but it was the best they were going to get. Besides, what were the chances everyone else would go all out?

He changed into the scarlet robes—they were a bit tighter than they'd once been, but they'd do all right—and apparated himself into the party.

As soon as he got there, he realized his mistake. Ron, clad in an authentic knight costume, was eating pumpkin pasties next to an extremely regal looking Lavender. George and Lee had attended as Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump, while Neville was a particularly frightening Devil's Snare—blimey, had he used a real plant for his costume?

He passed by Parvati and Seamus—dressed as a fairy and Peeves, respectively—and scores of zombies, goblins, vampires and unicorns, all meticulously dressed, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Lavender raised a skeptical eyebrow at him and his faded old robes as he approached her and Ron.

"Best you could do, Harry?" she asked, shaking her head at him.

Ron snickered, but looked at Harry in commiseration. Harry was certain if he didn't have to face his girlfriend's wrath, Ron would be in old quidditch robes too.

Harry stared at Lavender awkwardly, unsure what to say.

And then he heard a voice over his shoulder.

"Honestly, Lavender, I don't think our costume is that bad."

It was Hermione. She was standing behind him, but from the astonished look on Lavender's face, her costume must be something special.

Harry turned.

Well. Lavender had undersold it.

Hermione was a vision. She was dressed all in gold, a form-fitting dress that left nothing to the imagination, with dazzling wings that flapped on their own accord. Her hair was piled high on her head, a few curls falling down to frame her face, held in place with a headband in the form of a snitch.

But it all paled in comparison to her smile—victorious, ecstatic and enchanting.

For a moment he forgot to breathe.

If he were being honest with himself, that had been happening quite a bit around her lately. They'd always been best friends, but more and more, he'd found himself looking for excuses to pat her arm, losing himself in her chocolate brown eyes, resisting the urge to tuck an errant curl behind her ear.

She slid her arm through his, turning them to face Ron and Lavender, and he realized he'd done it again. He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to focus on their friends, even as he found her presence beside him intoxicating.

"What do you think?" Hermione asked the other girl, her face shining. Somehow, she'd gotten her skin to glitter as well.

Lavender beamed. "Well done," she agreed. "You two might even win the contest."

She pulled Ron toward the dance floor, and Harry turned to Hermione.

"What's this?" he asked, his voice squeaking a bit, much to his annoyance, as if he were still some 12-year-old boy with his first crush.

Hermione smiled cheekily. "What I do best," she said airily. "Saving you."

"My costume is fine," Harry grumbled.

Hermione shot him an incredulous look. "Your costume is _barely_ a costume, Harry, honestly," she retorted. "Luckily, I know you well enough to know you'd do this."

She waved her arm up and down to indicate his lackluster costume.

"But next to me, you look…"

She trailed off, smiling slightly, running her hand down his arm. She eyed him mischievously, and Harry felt a little off-kilter. They'd always been best friends, but there was something different in her eyes tonight—something… flirtatious almost?

Impossible. Hermione had never shown any interest in him. If she'd wanted something to happen, surely it would've when they'd spent months sleeping next to each other in a tent.

"Of course," she continued, eyeing him up and down, "you'll have to catch me first."

She gave him an impish grin, walking off—no, floating off… she'd gone and levitated herself… Merlin, she was brilliant—and Harry was left with the distinct impression that she had been flirting.

She didn't have to tell him twice.

With lightning-fast reflexes he'd honed on the quidditch pitch, he weaved in between couples and friends, following in her path. He caught up to her near the butterbeer table, which was next to a convenient corridor.

He grabbed her lightly by the hips, pulling her into the darkened hallway, twisting her around in his arms.

"Haven't you heard?" Harry asked, leaning closer to her, as she tipped her face up to him. "I was the youngest seeker in a century."

Hermione wound her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair. "I'm not sure how good you are," she said casually. "It's taken you a good few years to catch _this_ snitch, hasn't it?"

He studied her face—she was no longer joking. Her expression was serious, her eyes watching him hungrily.

"Let's rectify that, shall we?" he asked.

He pulled her flush against him and their lips crashed together, unleashing emotions and needs Harry hadn't realized he'd had. His hands traveled along her waist, her back, up her neck and into her hair, cupping her cheek, an exploration that felt familiar and new all at once.

Merlin, he was stupid. Why hadn't he done this in that blasted tent? This felt like coming home.

He wasn't sure how long they stood in that corridor, but when he pulled away, she was breathing heavy, her eyes closed, her lips looking thoroughly kissed.

She opened her eyes, those mesmerizing brown eyes he wanted to get lost in, and offered him a brilliant smile. She stood on tiptoe, her cheek brushing against his, her lips tantalizingly close to his ear.

"150 points, Potter," she whispered.


	2. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A drabble in response to a prompt about what would happen if Harry had followed Hermione after Ron insulted her first year

"Harry, where are we going?" Hermione asked impatiently.

He had grabbed her hand after Transfiguration, and it was all she could do to keep up with his purposeful strides as they weaved in and out of the crowds and up and down staircases.

"You've got to get to Quidditch practice," Hermione reminded him. "Angelina will have a fit if you're late."

"I can handle Angelina," Harry said dismissively.

Hermione eyed him in disbelief. Didn't he remember her tirade when Fred and George were late two weeks ago because they were selling Canary Creams to some Hufflepuffs? Molly Weasley couldn't have berated them any better.

"Yes, well, I'm supposed to be in the Great Hall," Hermione added. "All of the Prefects are supposed to help decorate for the Halloween feast."

She looked down at her Prefect badge and smiled. She'd been hoping that Harry would be Prefect with her, but Dumbledore had decided that he had too much on his plate already, what with Voldemort's return and all.

Clearly, he underestimated Harry, Hermione thought, rather crossly.

"Dean can take care of it," Harry answered. "He's better at decorating anyway—Don't look at me like that, Hermione—you're brilliant at everything, but this is art we're talking about."

That's true, she thought. Art was sort of Dean's thing.

"Besides," Harry added, "you pull enough weight for him when it comes to all of your other Prefect duties, don't you?"

Dean was a perfectly adequate partner—helpful, amiable and willing to cross Fred and George—but a secret part of her still wished it had been Harry.

They arrived at a door, and Harry nodded a bit to himself before pushing it open and walking them inside.

"What are we doing in a girl's lavatory?" Hermione asked in astonishment, as Harry let go of her hand to check the stalls and see if anyone was there.

"Do you really not remember?" Harry asked, eyeing her incredulously.

Hermione laughed. "Well of course I remember, Harry," she teased. "This is where we became friends."

Four years ago, Ron had said something inexcusably rude to her. After two months of trying—and failing—to make friends, it had broke something inside of her and she'd ended up in this bathroom sobbing her eyes out.

She'd had a miserable time at Hogwarts—no one had said a single word to her on her birthday, except for Professor Flitwick awarding her two points for getting an answer right—and she'd been certain she didn't belong here. Just like her muggle school, kids here didn't seem to understand her and she certainly didn't understand them.

She'd thought it would be different. She'd thought learning she was a witch had answered all of her questions about why she and the other kids couldn't get along. But sitting in this bathroom, she knew she'd been wrong.

Until a small boy with messy hair and the brightest green eyes had poked his head in and made her feel better with his understanding—he'd been picked on before too—and his light-hearted jokes, slowly teasing her out of her melancholy until she smiled and agreed to head down to the feast with him. They'd been inseparable since.

Harry was standing in front of her now, his fingers drumming lightly against his robes, his cheeks slightly flushed. She narrowed her eyes. He was _nervous_. Blimey, what did he have to be nervous about with her?

"Right," Harry agreed. "This is where we became friends. Four years ago today."

Hermione nodded slowly, looking up into his eyes, as bright as they'd been the day they became friends. While his body was anxious, his eyes had a determined gleam to them—she usually only saw that when he was readying himself for a Quidditch match.

Harry cleared his throat and then continued, in a bit of a rush, "So I thought this would be a good place for us to stop being friends."

_What?_

She barely had time to think, to sort out what he meant, when she realized that Harry had taken her hand in his. Watching the determination in his eyes, her hand tingled the second they touched—and then he was leaning closer to her.

_Oh god,_ she thought, panicking a bit, _why is he doing this? What if our friendship is never the same? Why does my hand feel like someone's set off fireworks in it?_

But, despite herself, her eyelids fluttered closed and when their lips met for the first time, the softest of touches, Hermione knew they'd never be just friends again.


	3. Hades/Persephone AU

He hunched over in his misery, feeling dirty, contaminated, worthless—as he always did toward the end of these long eight months.

The first two months were usually fine—he went about his business, ruling over the underworld, doing his duty. But the longer time went on, the further he got from her, the more he felt driven to retreat further from life—as if that were possible for the god of the dead.

He could take no pleasure in punishing the guilty, could feel no joy in the comfort of the Elysian Fields. His palace was a ghastly, somber place, filled only with the echoes of better times long gone. He refused all calls and visits from his brothers, declined all sustenance, could not enjoy even a bit of revelry. She was not here, and all was darkness.

By the end of the eight months, he always found himself in this position: Lost in the darkest recesses of the underworld, with only his trusted friend Cerberus nearby. He fed Cerberus dead rats, watching as the three heads fought over the decaying carcasses, enjoying a bit of sport as they did. It only made him feel more hollow.

So he spent the rest of his days and nights in complete darkness, watching the black, decaying door that he could not see but knew was mere feet in front of him. And then finally, a sound hammered through his heart, a sound he knew was coming—as it always did—but which he waited breathlessly for nonetheless, afraid that this might be the time she would leave him.

Silly, really. She had never left him. She never would.

The sound of her knock faded away, and then she was standing in the doorway, snow in her hair and her face pink with cold. Her presence here meant winter had come to the world above.

But he did not care about that. As she swept into the room, she brought sunlight with her.

She raised her eyebrow questioningly, her no-nonsense expression fixed on him, on the filth he surrounded himself in, on the mess he was without her.

And then she smiled—a brilliant smile—and he felt peace and serenity in his very bones.

"Come," she said, holding out her hand. "I've lit a fire in the hearth, and there are sandwiches for us to eat."

He took her hand in his, rising slowly. He closed his eyes, feeling the softness of her skin, how very solid she was. She was here, and as she led him out of the darkness, to the warmth and comfort of the home that they had created, once again brimming with happiness and delight, he had but one thought—he was alive again at last.


	4. First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Prompt: If Harry and Hermione pretend to date after Skeeter's article in Goblet of Fire:

It was all Ron's fault, really.

Hermione hadn't been fazed at all by that rubbish article Rita Skeeter wrote, nor had she cared about Pansy Parkinson's sniggering, and somehow—despite Harry's own face burning as Snape read aloud the outlandish words—Hermione had sat through it all with a bored expression on her face, as if Snape's dramatic reading was nothing more than another Binns lecture on the Goblin Rebellion of 1789.

But Ron? He'd kept moaning about how Hermione had been branded a scarlet woman, kept pestering her about Viktor's offer to visit him in Bulgaria, wanted to know exactly what Viktor meant when he said he'd never felt this way about another girl.

Harry thought Viktor's intentions were perfectly obvious—Hermione was a pretty, smart girl, after all, so of course some bloke would fancy her—but Ron's brain hadn't quite caught up yet to that undeniable truth.

Regardless, Ron was mad. So when they ran into Viktor Krum on their way to Hogsmeade that Saturday, he finally mustered up the courage to actually speak to his idol: "Just stay away from her, all right! She's got a boyfriend!"

Viktor surveyed Ron critically, his brow furrowed, before turning his attention to Hermione, who was shooting a rather annoyed frown at Ron, and Harry, who wasn't sure what his face looked like, except perhaps confused because he didn't know what Ron was playing at.

"Ah, I see," Viktor said, nodding his head in resignation, as if he had been ready to hear exactly those words. "So there is something between you?"

He looked pointedly at Harry and Hermione.

"Yeah, that's right!" Ron practically shouted. "She's with Harry, so just keep your bloody invitations to yourself!"

Hermione looked ready to murder Ron, but all around them a crowd was gathering—everyone was going to Hogsmeade, so the path was well-traveled. Harry quickly seized both Hermione and Ron by the arms and hurried forward. A scene would only make things worse.

"What was _that_?" Hermione hissed.

"It's perfect!" Ron said. "Just tell everyone you two are dating and that skinny prat will leave you alone!"

"He's a _friend_ , Ron," Hermione spat, her frustration evident. She'd been very clear with both of them that whatever feelings Viktor had, she only liked him platonically. And it was one thing for strangers to believe Hermione was lying, but Ron's distrust was something else altogether.

"Either way, it'll look worse if you two don't go out on a date," Ron said.

"Not much of a date if we've got a third wheel tagging along," Harry commented, earning an exasperated look from Hermione for indulging in Ron's nonsense, and a look of confusion from Ron.

"You're right," he said. "Good thinking! I'll go to Gladrags and get the socks for Dobby, and you two go to the Three Broomsticks. We'll meet up later to see Sirius."

And that's how Harry ended up wedged into a corner table with Hermione in the Three Broomsticks, two large glasses of butterbeer in front of them, and approximately three dozen eyes pretending to look anywhere but at them.

"He's impossible!" Hermione fumed. "Of all the ridiculous things! As if I can't be trusted to decide whom I should or shouldn't date, or which boys I get to talk to! It's demeaning, it's ridiculous—he's insufferable!"

But Harry didn't really want to talk about Ron. All he could think of as he walked to the pub, found them a table, and asked Madam Rosmerta for their drinks was that the only reason Ron had come up with this plan was because, in his eyes, Harry was _safe_.

But sitting next to Hermione, watching her intelligent brown eyes glitter and dance as she got closer to proving her point, and her dark tresses bounce as she gesticulated wildly, Harry felt like he was anything but safe.

He'd realized how pretty she was at the Yule Ball, but this Hermione—with her wild curls and her soft, fuzzy sweaters and her ink-smudged fingers—was so much better.

"Hermione," he said, interrupting her tirade. "You're ruining our date."

Hermione opened her mouth in astonishment and than closed it quickly. "This isn't an _actual_ date, Harry," she said.

"Of course it's not," Harry agreed quickly, taking a sip of his butterbeer. "I'd never take you _here_ for a first date."

"Oh?" Hermione laughed, following along. "Where would we go then?"

"Well, first we'd go to Tomes and Scrolls—catch one of the readings with the authors there that you like so much," Harry said. "Then we'd go to that bakery—the one with the shortbread biscuits you said were better than your mum's—and after that, we'd hike up the mountain a bit. Florean Fortescue told me there's this old fort from the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 up there. He says it's got all sorts of neat historical artifacts—stuff that's actually interesting, not that rubbish Binns drones on about—and a perfect view of the village and Hogwarts."

Hermione's eyes were wide and her mouth gaped. She clearly hadn't thought Harry would put that much thought into crafting the perfect date for her. Truth be told, Harry hadn't realized just how much he'd thought about it until the words came out of his mouth.

"And," he added, knowing his face had gone red, but feeling like he had to finish since he'd already committed to the thing, "I wouldn't squeeze in a date before I'm supposed to meet someone else—not a date with you anyway."

He reached for his butterbeer and took a very large gulp. As long as he was drinking, he didn't have to say anything.

Hermione's cheeks turned pink.

"Oh!" she said faintly, as he put his glass down and traced the rim of it with his finger.

What did _that_ mean?

She took a small sip of her own butterbeer and then stared down, her eyes never leaving the frothy beverage.

"Maybe," she said hesitantly, "we could try that next time?"

Harry met her eyes. They were full of hope and her smile was timid.

"Yeah," he agreed, breaking into a grin that she quickly matched, "I think we should."

Later, as she twined her hand in his as they walked down the busy road to catch up with Ron for their meeting with Sirius, Harry couldn't help but think that sometimes his best mate really did have the best ideas.


End file.
